


Seven Toasts to the Baratheon Bastard and His Bride

by DrHolland



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, game of thrones
Genre: Arya x Gendry Week 2016, F/M, arya and gendry week 2016
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrHolland/pseuds/DrHolland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven fics for Arya and Gendry Week 2016. (Some updates have been loosely inspired by my current WIP, Arya of the Thousand Days, although the works are not tied together. Others are AU, including some that are related to last year's AxG Week drabbles.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to last year’s AxG week arc, “The Celebrity and the Handyman.”

The only thing on Earth that smells quite like the New York City subway is… well, the _subway._

Arya hadn’t taken it since she was a teen. In the decade since her gigantic Oscar win, hers had been a world of chauffeurs and limousines, white-gloved doormen in full livery, and her every need catered to. It wasn't _exactly_ how she’d grown up summering on her parents’ country estate in York, but she knew that riding her horses until they lathered on the bleak moors was _not_ the same kind of grit that those who took the subway day after day experienced.

She didn’t mind taking the subway, not really. It was Gendry who’d taught her how to navigate it long ago, back when they were younger and their relationship was new. He’d entered her world, and then showed her his. It was their game, something that just the two of them knew about... the most exquisite kind of foreplay when they couldn't get enough of each other, inside or outside of the bedroom.

Of course, the game was over once her fans figured things out. It wasn’t fair that Arya was striking enough so that most disguises didn’t work… she was far more petite than the average, and her face was distinctive even when she wore glasses. The whispers among even the most jaded riders would grow until someone would invariably ask.

_“Excuse me, are you Arya Stark?”_

_“No, she’s not,” Gendry snapped before she could answer, staring down the culprit until intimidated, they looked away._

But after a while, it was clear that her pretensions of being a look-a-like wouldn’t fly. By the time she was nominated for the Academy Award the second time, she would get mobbed by fans, Gendry or not. Once she catapulted to the A+ list, there was no chance of using a MetroCard like everyone else… except for once a year, when she got a kick out of wearing a mask and riding from the Upper East Side to the 7 Extension right to the Javits Center for New York Comic Con.

Then the children came, and everything changed. Little Lyanna first, and then two years later, Ned. They were the light of Arya and Gendry’s lives, and were the main reason why they chose to remain in New York in the first place… it meant that a trip back home to England to see family and friends would only be 7 hours instead of 11. Besides, the Big Apple was special.

New York was the city where two Londoners fell in love.

_But Gendry’s no longer in love with me._

The thought came to her, unbidden. Beneath her gigantic hat, orange wig, and big sunglasses, the tears filled her grey eyes.

Maybe it was inevitable, she thought sadly. No woman deserved to be as happy as she’d been over the past decade. She was the most bankable actress of her generation, had a drop-dead gorgeous husband who the world believed doted on her, two adorably photogenic children, and a penthouse worth $20 million with incredible 360-degree views.

And yet her husband was sleeping with her manager. All the signs were there. Arya had been watching for _weeks_. Gendry seemed distracted and preoccupied, absent… almost distant these past few months. Even worse, it seemed as if whenever Arya wanted to talk with him, Kristin was right there. 

 _She’s not even that cute._ _And she’s not his type!_

_If he could cheat on me with her, he has no taste. American girls are such whores._

Well, Gendry wasn’t going to make a fool out of her! She was going to catch him in the act!

Which was why she had to wear this ugly disguise. And send her kids to her sister’s in Scotland. And take the subway. Arya didn't want anyone to know what she’d been up to. And she _certainly_ didn’t want the tabloids to know, which was why she couldn’t hire a private investigator. 

She had her children to think of!

Not to mention her pride.

Exiting the subway at 59th and Lexington, Arya made her way to their Park Avenue building as dusk fell. Her appearance attracted several curious stares from passers-by and the random doorman, but not much else.

Even on the Upper East Side, this was still New York.

She had already bribed the new maintenance guy to let her in through the service entrance and elevator, saying that she had a surprise for Gendry… and boy, did she _ever_.

The penthouse was surprisingly dark. It was almost as if no one was home, which wasn’t right. She knew that Gendry and Kristin were together; she’d traced both their phones right here!

 _No wonder it’s dark. They’re probably in bed together._

Furious, Arya stormed to the equipment closet and extracted Ned’s baseball bat. Ridiculous sport, that, but even a jumped-up Yankee cricket stick had its uses.

_He’s probably ringing her bells right now! Well, I’ll ring this right against his bull head!_

Suddenly, all the lights came on. Before Arya could react or move a muscle…

“SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” 

The penthouse foyer was filled with dozens upon dozens of singing people from every part of Arya’s life. The entire Hollywood A-List. Her Broadway friends. Her friends from the music world. Gendry’s friends from his engineering school days. Lommy, Hot Pie, Anguy, and the boys. All her brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, including Sansa and her family…

_Happy birthday to you!_

_Happy birthday to you!_

_Happy birthday, dear Arya,_

_Happy birthday to you!_

“Happy birthday, Mum!” chortled Lyanna, as Ned ran into Arya’s arms. “Hey, why’s your hair like that?”

“Mummy, you have my bat!” giggled her son, bright blue eyes that were so much like his father’s crinkling as he took it from her.

Gendry walked up behind her, removing the hat and wig with a chuckle. Dark brown hair tumbled down to skim her shoulders as he pulled her close, her back against his broad, muscled chest.

Kristin was in front of her, looking very sheepish.

“Sorry, boss… but Gendry said you _hate_ surprises, so… we had to find a way to get you here for the party.”

Arya’s mouth dropped open as she gazed at Kristin’s hand, entwined in another _woman’s._

"Kristin's told me so much about you, Mrs. Waters," said the woman, politely. "I'm Yara."

“Seems like the joke’s on me,” Arya said, turning around to fuss at her husband after she exchanged pleasantries with her manager's wife. "I should have known." 

Gendry laughed as she plied him with kisses. 

“And you say _I’m_ the jealous one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being a little late, everyone! It's been a busy summer. As usual, work's kicking my ass, and I've been traveling a lot.
> 
> I hope to finish up these AXGWeek2016 entries by mid-August. In the meantime, you can find all my Gendrya updates, drabbles, musings and feels on my new Tumblr sideblog, both-stark-and-baratheon. Check it out!
> 
> Love you guys so much! Thanks for checking in from time to time. Hope to update Arya of the Thousand Days soon, too... your reviews & kudos are so encouraging. So glad that people are still reading my little story.


	2. Protect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy future fic inspired by my WIP, Arya of the Thousand Days.

Gendry couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a proper hunt. It was his wife who enjoyed the bloodlust of a kill, little she-wolf that she was. She was the one who’d drag him south into the rainwood, or North to meet the King’s party closer to the forest surrounding the capital…

If he had his way, he’d use those times to remain in the smithy.

Especially now. The music of hammer against steel would have done much to settle his nerves.

Yet he was now a Great Lord of Westeros, and as such, all sorts of things were required of him. One of them was continuing the traditions of the family who’d never recognized him until the Wars. It was Shireen who suggested it.

“I’m not trying to be my father,” he snapped, perhaps more harshly than intended. “Just because he always hunted when…”

“It’s not just your father,” Shireen told him. “It’s a Baratheon tradition. When your lady wife’s time comes, you go to the woods, and when you come back with your quarry, she presents you with a babe.”

Gendry knew that Arya wasn’t much for tradition. He figured that she would want him by her side when her water broke. But Shireen had come all the way from Winterfell, and Sansa had come from the capital, and his incorrigible forest lass was regaling them both with stories that had them laughing… that is, in between the pains.

“Go on, then,” she fussed at him. “You’re more worried than I am.”

_Course I’m worried, milady! The queen nearly died birthing Aemon, and your lady aunt, she…_

_“_ You’re hurting,” he said, not finding the words to voice his fears.

“Oh, dear goodbrother, that’s part of it,” Sansa laughed, voice sounding like music as she held her drowsing daughter against her bosom, stepping out of the solar so they could have a word alone. “She will be fine. I have two, and Shireen has one… now, it’s Arya’s turn.”

Of course, the lady of Storm’s End had the final word.

“Come here and kiss me, stupid,” she teased.

He was used to obeying her commands. This time was no exception.

“Now, get out of here,” she whispered against his lips, hooking a finger into his tunic’s collar. “And bring me a side of fresh venison in honor of the little stag I’m bringing into the world.”

“Half stag, half wolf,” he corrected.

“And all bull… just like his father.” She kissed him again. “What’s wrong? Why don’t you want to go?”

“Are you scared, Arry?”

“Scared?” She frowned. “Of what?”

“Of… something happenin’ to the babe.” _Or to you,_ he thought, but wouldn’t say.

She shook her head, hand coming up to caress the side of his bearded face… try as he might, she would _not_ allow him to shave beyond a bit of a trim. He was the only Southron nobleman who wore one... that is, except for her brother, King Jon himself. 

“Listen to me. Nothing’s going to happen our babe… or me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Promise me you won’t think on it.”

“Arry…”

“ _Promise me.”_

His eyes refused even as his lips moved. “I promise.”

“I'm going to bring your son into the world, Gendry. And I'm not going anywhere… who else’s going to teach him how to ride? And hunt? Not you!”

Even at moments like this, Arya Stark never failed to make him smile.

Her smile sustained him through the long hours in the saddle to the southernmost part of the kingswood. This early in the spring, game was still scarce, especially after the horrific winter they’d just endured. But the hounds ran forth, and the hawks soared high, and by nightfall there was plenteous game to be had.

Several toasts were drunk to his health, of course.

“To House Baratheon, its lord and lady, and the heir to come!”

He hadn’t drank so much since his wedding night, when the Northerners plied him with enough ale and mead to fell an ox. But he and Arya still had a fabulous time, giggling as they made clumsy love that somehow felt sacred and new because they were so inebriated. Nearly four years on, he still didn’t have much of a head for wine, but at least it meant he’d be able to sleep it off tonight before they rode back for Storm’s End at dawn. 

Gendry was dozing in his tent when the news came.

“Milord, a swift messenger from the castle!” Topsy shouted, bursting in. “It’s Lady Arya. You’d better come!”

His worst fears had been realized. During the day, Arya had been fine, but as night fell and her contractions grew closer together, she took a turn for the worse. Gendry was trying not to succumb to a panicked ride back to the castle _or_ taking his hammer to Topsy for bringing him the news he’d feared when a dark shadow filled the sky.

It was the King, mounted on Drogon.

That’s when Gendry knew the news was grave indeed. No raven was swift enough to have reached King’s Landing with the news. This was the work of Lord Bran, his greenseer of a goodbrother, watching from the North.

King Jon’s dragon was _Viserion._ The only time he rode Drogon was when either strength or time was of the essence…

“Gendry, we don’t have time for horseback!” called the King. “We’ve got to get to her.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

“Meet us back at the castle,” he called to his men, then mounted Drogon and flew off with the King.

*

“Let go of me!” roared Gendry, trying to get to his screaming wife. 

It took nearly a dozen of his own men to restrain the Lord of Storm’s End when the maester told him the horrific news.

Arya was dying. She was strong of will and body, but she wasn’t just carrying one of his babes. 

She carried twins. And they were both gigantic.

Put simply, she was too small to deliver them. Because he’d loved her, because of who _he_ was, she was going to die just like her aunt Lyanna did.

So now, Gendry had a choice. 

They could cut her open and give his babes a chance to live, but she would surely die. That was the way of things in the East… it was nearly what had been done to the queen when she birthed Aemon.

Or they could just let nature take its course, and let the gods have their say. 

 _We were so happy,_ he thought, even as his men risked their own lives so that he wouldn’t harm the maester, the midwife, or even his own cousin and goodsister in his fury. Before he knew anything, he was in the huge private atrium at the top of the castle, sitting on one of those fancy cushiony chairs.

The walls here were so thick that he could no longer hear Arya’s screams. It was something he was thankful to the Red God, his ancestor Durran Godsgrief, and his friend Bran the Builder for. 

His head was in his hands.

Jon, his friend, his goodbrother, and his king stood before him. A hand was on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” Jon was puzzled.

“I did this, Jon. I didn't protect your sister.” 

“Protect her? From whom?”

“Me.” 

"You did nothing but love her." Jon’s anguished eyes told the tale that his lips did not. “My little sister’s strong. She may yet pull through.” 

“What if she doesn’t?” 

“It will be hard, but we shall endure. For winter is coming.”

Gendry couldn’t even think on it.

“But I know Arya. She will find a way out of this. She always does.” The king lifted his hand and walked to the large windows overlooking the sea. “Dany taught me never to underestimate the power of a woman.”

He didn’t know what to say to the King about that. It was known far and wide that not only had the queen nearly died while birthing the prince, she nearly succumbed to childbed fever after that. 

What if Arya pulled through, if only to die horribly from the blood fever? 

He couldn’t protect her from that, could he?

Just as his thoughts collided to their darkest point, there was a flash of red hair as his beautiful silk-gowned goodsister emerged from the solar. _Sansa._

Jon and Gendry both looked at her, and then at each other.

That’s when they knew.

And the King of Westeros, and the Warden of the East, broke out into a run.

* 

“You two are both so stupid,” Arya declared, in a dry whisper as Marya and Willow helped the midwife and the maester clean the babies up. “Gendry, I told you that I’d be just fine.”

“You weren’t fine!” he said, sitting on the side of their bed, too relieved to be angry at how outrageous she was being… and almost always was.

“Arya, you nearly died,” Jon said. “That isn’t ‘fine.’”

She shushed him, perhaps the only person on the continent who dared do so.

“This is exactly why we send you men on hunts,” she told him, letting Gendry up on the bed to hold her in his arms.

“I’m going to have a word with Weasel,” said Sansa tersely. “She had no right to go telling tales to Topsy.”

“Weasel’s dead gone on your squire, Gendry,” said Shireen, in a conspiratorial tone as she and Sansa readied the cradles. “Likely an excuse to go see him.”

They continued their gossip, but Gendry was oblivious as their newborn babies were brought to them, fresh bathed and swaddled. Arya held one and Gendry the other.

Gendry, the bastard orphan without anything to call his own, was now father to two incredible little squalling boys. Both of them had coal black hair and cobalt blue eyes just like his. 

The feeling was indescribable.

_I will always protect you._

_All of you._

_Everything I care about is here._

_My entire life is in this bed._

_My Arya… and my sons…_

_Mine._

“I thought we’d call them Robb and Ned,” Arya confessed tiredly. “For my father and yours. But we’ve already got two Robbs and three Neds… and more to come, mayhaps… so I thought of something else. How about Durran… and Brandon? I want them to have their own names.”

Gendry thought about it. While he didn’t mind naming their babe after Arya’s father, he didn’t want a Robert or a Robb, or anything reminiscent of the father who never claimed him. Durran had been the legendary first King of the Stormlands… and Brandon, his best friend.

He also knew that Arya did this to honor her brother who would never have a child of his own, and to honor the connection between her house and his.

Gendry nodded.

“Good. We’ll have our Ned someday, and our Lya too. Because I think I like this motherhood thing. We should do it again soon.”

She kissed and nuzzled the top of little Brandon’s head, turned to do the same to Durran… and then, honored their father with the same.

And while Gendry thought he knew what it meant to love before, in that moment, he suspected this was just the beginning of a whole new life.


	3. You'll Be Back

**1.**

Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill had never been this cold before in his life. Before the past few snowy weeks, he’d _thought_ he had an idea of what winter meant… it was something akin to the way he’d felt soaked in the village, at Harrenhal, and later with the Brotherhood when the rain quenched their nightfires.

But he soon realized that he didn’t know what “Winter is coming” truly meant.

 _She_ used to say it, from time to time. Oh, not when he was paying attention, and only in her sleep when he still thought she was Arry. But he knew that the coming of winter made her sad, at least, that’s what he heard in her voice whenever she said it.

_Your father was the Hand, the traitor…_

_He was no traitor! Joffrey is a liar!_

To hear her address the king thusly had shocked him completely, then left him in dismay as he realized the full truth of who she was. But that seemed like a long time ago, long before he disappointed her, and she ran, and the Hound caught her, and they feared her lost at a wedding where the halls ran red with blood.

Now they were saying she’d married the bastard of Lord Bolton. _Married_ him, when he was too bloody lowborn for m’lady high, of course. Never mind that she didn’t seem like the type to marry anyone…

_“Why don’t you go back to Stoney Sept and ring that girl’s stupid bells?”_

Something had been happening between them right before they left, something undefinable that led to the undead Lord Beric’s ominous tone and the garrulous Lem’s threats. But she was gone before they could find out what it was.

 _You’ll be back, Arry,_ he thought stubbornly. _I don’t care who you’ve married. There’s unsettled business between us._

_You’ll be back._

_And this time, I’ll never let you go._

**2.**

“Lady Arya Stark, I presume.” 

She frowned. Now, after the Wars were over, Arya didn’t object to being called a lady any longer, although she was still the most quarrelsome, incorrigible, and wild maiden this side of the Narrow Sea. Now that her brother was King, the last thing he needed whilst rebuilding their lands was to have _her_  remain a point of contention for his Lords.

Not that merely assuming her title was enough to quell their noise. The Wars had been over naught but a year, but ravens flew every moon to the Red Keep and to Winterfell, imploring that the King consider suits from realms near and far for his two sisters. Widowed, young, and assumed fertile, Arya was now one of the most eligible women in the Kingdoms. 

At least, in the eyes of all of Westeros, she was.

When the Great Council declared him dead, the eyes of every noble had been upon her. Her wartime romance had been sung about around campfires and halls from Dorne to where the Wall used to be, but now that the last of the wights moved no more, it was also a scandal. At least her sister Sansa had married a Heir Apparent of one of the Seven Kingdoms, and given him a son, no less. While the South was of the opinion that she’d done far too much unladylike politicking and negotiating, especially when the Queen from over the sea appeared, she did so without a single hair out of place.

But Arya… it wasn’t just her romance that was sung about in the halls, it was her prowess in battle.

A most unladylike woman, that sister of the King… a stranger from the North raised a bastard, then bound to the vows of the Night’s Watch, then the savior of them all.

Strange she was, more akin to the wildling woman whom rumor held that the King had taken to bed while still Lord Commander of the Watch than the progeny of proper Riverlands ladies like Catelyn Tully and Minisa Whent.

They didn’t bother cloaking their whispers when her husband was pronounced dead by that infernal Great Council.

Arya’s face was as impassive as that of a heart tree. But inside, she wept rivers of blood.

 _You’ll be back, Gendry,_ she thought stubbornly. _You promised me when we were married that you’d never leave me. You promised, before your Lord of Light, and my father’s Old Gods!_

_You aren’t dead._

_I know you’ll come back to me._

After that day, Arya did not object at Court when she was addressed as Lady Arya… “princess” was different, but lady was all right, she guessed. 

_M’lady._

And sometimes, she wouldn’t wear her riding leathers in the small council chamber. She’d learned the charms of dresses in Braavos, and while she had little patience for corsets and lace, she did concede that much.

_A nice oak tree._

But one thing that Arya did while she was in those dresses, during those long and agonizing years without him, was leave no mistake where her heart belonged.

“Lady Arya Stark, I presume?”

She frowned.

“Forgive me,” said the visiting dignitary. “I was led to believe you were Lady Arya Stark, sister of the King.”

“It is true that I am the King’s sister,” was her reply. “But my husband is Lord _Baratheon_.”

As the ambassador stammered an apology, Arya felt no small degree of satisfaction.

_Yes. You’ll be back…_

_Then they’ll see._

 

**3.**

Elly rode until the crescent moon was high over Shipbreaker Bay, until sweat poured from her pale brow in rivulets, until the demons in her blood were satisfied. Moonlight and starlight and the humid summer night were all that she needed. For she knew these shore paths as well as she knew her own name, perhaps well as her legendary namesake.

People said that Elly was the best horsewoman of her generation…

…just as her mother had been before her.

As she raced her chestnut down the shore, Elly chewed her lip, wondering if she was making the right choice. To be one of the Queen’s handmaidens was a great honor. Star Dayne, the daughter of Mother and Father’s friend, had been at King’s Landing for two years now. Now Elly and her cousins Lya Stark and Cat Clegane would be arriving this fortnight to take their places at court.

Part of her didn’t want to go. How could she ever leave Storm’s End? To be certain, Dur was already squiring at court, but Bran was still at home, learning the craft of the forge from Father… incorrigible Anna was always trying to outrace her and was already better at archery… and little Ned was already making his way through the old library, telling such stories. The maester marveled at how much he knew, but Uncle Brandon would soon send for him to come North for fostering… he wouldn’t be home when she returned.

Then there was old Ser Davos and Lady Marya, Hot Pie and Willow’s children running about, and now Weasel and Tops’ little girl… and a hundred more babes, children, families, old knights, and crones. And that was just Storm’s End! From Fellwood to Mistwood, Elly knew the names and faces of just about every man, woman, and child in the lands of the Storm. 

Of all her brothers and sisters, Elly was most beloved by the people of the Stormlands, and she loved them right back. 

 _Not since the Laughing Storm’s daughter has there been such a maid in these lands,_ it was said. _Would that Lady Elenei were the heir! Nothing like that dull Westerlands girl young Lord Durran’s betrothed. Elenei brings light and life to the old Keep, that’s for sure._

 _That she does. They say young Elenei is just like her mother, the She-Wolf, at that age._

_And her great-aunt before her, if the rumors are true. The King’s eldest son is smitten with her, and the entire realm knows it. Remember when Prince Aemon crowned her at the joust last summer?_

_Indeed! They call the girls of Winterfell blue winter roses. I never believed it true… they called Lyanna Stark… not our Lya, but the Heir of the North’s daughter… they call her that._

_Let them have their blue roses of frost! Our little Elly’s become a rose of the South. A golden rose, both Stark and Baratheon._

_Aye, she is that… all the realm knows that the Yellow Rose of Storm’s End will be the next Princess of Dragonstone someday, mark my words._

_At long last, the Stormlands will have a Queen again._

Elly, who’d been skulking about the kitchens that day, had flushed bright red to hear the gossip. Were Aemon’s attentions _that_ obvious? Thinking about the prince made her feel suddenly shy. And more than a little frustrated… after all, she preferred her horse and the hunt to that silly crown of water lilies that Aem had handed to her at the tourney of Storm’s End.

Yet Elly got the feeling that the Queen – Aunt Dany -- was planning _something._ When she was last at court, she’d been measured within an inch of her _life_ while her mother and her royal aunt conversed together in low tones. Her mother had left the conversation looking extremely annoyed and impatient, while the Queen looked delighted… no, _smug._

Elly didn’t think anything of it. She’d known Aemon all her life, and was as comfortable with him as she was with her brothers… except, he _wasn’t_ her brother. When they were little, he liked to tease her until she hit him with whatever was nearest, much to his delight and her consternation. 

When Elly was six, Aemon was almost nine. For the next seven years, he squired for the Sword of the Morning, Lord Edric Dayne… her Uncle Ned, Star’s father… back then, Elly heard everyone say that his engagement to Star would be announced. (Of course she didn’t _care,_ but she didn’t like to hear about it, either.)

But during all the years of his fostering, Aem spent nearly as much time at Storm’s End as he did at Starfall. While his younger brother, Prince Robb, was fostered in the North, and seemed to prefer the ways of the direwolves, Aemon was a true Targaryen in every sense of the word. All the royal children were dragonriders, but Aemon’s bond with his dragon Mantarys was particularly strong.

Elly had ridden Mantarys more times that she could count.

_See what I mean, El? Dragons are way better than horses._

_Shut up, stupid. You’re wrong._

_No, I’m not!_

_Yes, you are! Dragons are like the gods, they can wreak so much terror._

_You don’t understand, El. Dragons protect my family, and yours… and these kingdoms._

_Perhaps, but they’re not everything. Horses are better, Aem. They don’t kill anyone, they’re gentle and kind and strong… they’re like family, Aem._

_Who wants a mangy old horse as family? You have a family, and so do I… just look at everything you can see from up here! You can see the entire world..._

_But just think about how much you miss._

_He’d turned her face toward his. And before she knew it, his lips were upon hers._

Elly didn’t want to think about what any of it _meant_. The last time the royal family had flown down for supper at Storm’s End a moon ago, between the Queen’s insinuations and the crown prince’s eyes, she’d felt as if she had no choice but to accept the invitation to come to Court. 

After all, she’d be six-and-ten on her next name day…

_Your mother was your father’s bride when she was your age._

“Nonsense, you're too young to be married,” Mother had said firmly the next night as she brushed her hair firmly… she was always firm, matter of fact, almost unpracticed in her strokes… but Elly found she preferred it to Weasel or Aunt Sansa’s gentle handling.

“It isn’t nonsense if it’s true, Mother. You _were_ my age when you wed Father.”

“That’s because your grandparents were gone. They would have never approved! I married your father because there was a _war_ on and we all thought we might _die.”_

“But the Queen says that a maiden who’s six-and-ten…”

“If Dany Targaryen had her way, your father and I would’ve sent you to Court by raven, all trussed up for her son before you’d even flowered!” She sighed and set the brush down. “Elly, how _do_ you feel about Aemon?”

Elly opened her mouth to answer. 

Instead, all she could do was sigh. 

That sigh was why this was her very last night at Storm’s End. After that, her mother dropped all objections to her going, only murmuring her disapproval under her breath. Father said nothing, but then, Father was a man of few words… which is why whenever he spoke, all the lands listened. 

Father was the very person she wanted to speak to tonight. He always understood. He understood  _everything._

She found him after her ride, alone in the forge, hammering away at a special artisanal sword that he’d been working on for nearly a moon. Wrought by his hands, the weapon would be nearly priceless.

Of course, she could no more sneak up on him than Mother could. (“You’re too much like her,” he always pointed out.)

“Tell your mother I’m almost done, Ells-bells…”

“I didn’t see Mother,” she said quietly, closing the door behind her and stepping more fully into the firelight. Like father, like all the children, she didn’t mind the intense heat of the forge… or any kind of fire, really.

Gendry cooled the sword, then set his hammer down. He wiped the sweat from his brow, tossing another cloth to his eldest daughter. Beckoning to one of the benches was unnecessary. Elly was already perched there, taking a swig from one of the skins on the nearest table.

“What is that vile stuff?” she said, coughing.

Dry chuckle. “Your mother’s trying her hand at mead-making.”

“Why?”

She got a full laugh out of him this time. “Hot Pie dared her. And your mother never found a dare she didn’t like.” He took the wineskin from her, and drained it. “We’ll set off for King’s Landing at dawn.”

“No need. I’ve had a raven from Aemon.” 

“And?” 

Her face was burning. “He’ll be joining us for breakfast, then escorting me on dragonback to King’s Landing. Only with _your_ permission, of course.”

Gendry shook his head as he sat beside his daughter.

“He’s asked me for your hand, you know. Last time he was here."

Elly’s throat went dry. “He WHAT?” 

“Surely it can’t be that much of a surprise, El.” He patted her knee. “I expect he’ll want an answer.”

She didn't say anything.

“It’s up to you.”

“It isn’t.” Sigh. “Westeros has changed since the Wars, but that much hasn’t. I have to marry someone…”

“You don’t have to do anything,” her father joked. “You can be an outlaw like Wenda the White Fawn.”

Elly giggled. “Mother told me she used to dream of that, long ago, when she was a little girl. But she didn't just want to run away… she wanted to run away with _you_. That’s… that’s how Aemon makes me feel. Why does everything have to be so complicated?”

“Because he’s the Prince of Dragonstone, and you’ve your mother’s blood.” Gendry shook his head, the firelight revealing just a hint of silver frost at his temples. “Being a lady was the only thing she never wanted to do, and yet, she did it for me, her brother, and the kingdoms.”

“And yet I’ve not regretted a moment of it,” said Arya, walking into the forge in search of them both. To the unspoken question in both of their eyes, so much alike, she said: “I knew she’d be out here fretting, and I knew she’d be with you.”

Elly knew that her mother’s fussing was from contentment. Her closeness with her own father was something she often spoke of with Elly and her brothers and sister.

“Why can’t I be with Aemon and stay in Storm’s End?”

Arya came to sit on the other side of Elly, the motion revealing the riding leathers under her skirts. “The same reason why I couldn’t marry your father and stay in Winterfell. The eldest child inherits, and I don't think you want to play second fiddle to that Westerlands girl...”

"What Westerlands girl?" snapped Elly. "Mother, Father, do you even know what's going on with your children at all? Durran's _dead gone_ on Star Dayne! Star is going to be Lady of Storm's End, not Hannah!"

For once, her parents had nothing to say. But Elly didn't notice it, such was the tear she was on.

“It’s not fair that Durran gets Storm’s End when I love it better! Dur loves court and he practically _worships_ Uncle Jon. And Bran, all he talks of is going off to Qohor, and learning to smith gold from iron! Neddy’s going to the Citadel as soon as he's done fostering in the North… no one _loves_ the Stormlands as I do, Mother!”

“I know," said Arya quietly.

Elly was so perplexed that she didn’t see the looks her parents exchanged over her head. “How can you know?”

“Because I feel the same way whenever we’re in the North,” Arya told her. “And well you know it.”

That brought Elly up short. She recalled the half dozen visits to the North and Winterfell during her lifetime, when she raced Mother through the wolfswood, the direwolves nipping playfully at their heels, chasing game. She remembered the way Mother would laugh during their evenings in the Great Hall, how proudly she showed them all the revived glass gardens, and how solemn she was in the ancient godswood and the crypts.

Looking into her mother’s cool grey eyes, so much like her own, filled hers with tears.

“How can you bear it?”

She heard her father cough twice, and saw her mother’s scowl.

“My dear, there was nothing to ‘bear.’ Your uncle Jon needed your father and I to rule the Stormlands, and so we have. And I’ve grown to love these people and this wild land… even if you can’t draw a proper breath in summer. In turn, they have learned to accept my ways, and accept _me_ as the Lady of these lands.

“But most of all, I love your father. I wanted him to have all the things he didn’t growing up – a family of his own, and a _home_ that was all his. And I wanted you, our children, to know these lands of your ancestors. I wanted you to love Storm’s End as fondly as I loved Winterfell. It seems that I have succeeded.” 

Arya wiped Elly’s eyes, kissing her forehead.

“What you don’t realize yet, precious little doe, is that you’ll be back. I have been Lady Baratheon these twenty-and-one years, but I am ever the She-Wolf of Winterfell. The North will rise at a moment’s notice should I or my children need them… just as my mother remained Catelyn Tully until her death. You are both Stark and Baratheon, both she-wolf and doe, with a strong dose of _bullheadedness_ running through your blood…” 

“ _Mother,”_ said Elly, mortified as her mother _actually reached around her and pinched her father’s arse._ “Please.”

“Girl, don’t ‘please’ me. If you’re vexed by _that_ , I mean to have a long talk with you tonight ere I send you to King’s Landing. For the prince means to do more than just grab your…”

Before Arya could continue, Elly had flown out the door with a departing, “Father, _make her stop!”_ called over her shoulder.

Arya and Gendry looked at each other.

Then they burst out laughing.

“Our little girl's going to be Queen someday,” Arya said, sobering up as he wound his arms around her. “The one child who loves this place best has to leave it.”

Gendry pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Dany told me years ago that I’d be father to a Queen.”

“I’m fine with one of our children going, but all of them? Our eldest practically lives at my brother’s court, and the rest are clamoring to scatter to the four winds. I feel as if I’ve failed, Gendry. Where did we go wrong?”

“Destiny,” Gendry shrugged. “After all, we were supposed to be outlaws.”

She nuzzled her face against his bare chest, like the she-wolf she was. But all the same, he felt the tears.

“She’ll be back.” His voice was a heavy rumble that bespoke what he felt at the prospect of their daughter’s leaving in the morn.

“Aye. But it’ll never be the same.” 

“For true, but… in a year or two, there may be babes. Our grandchildren, Arya.”

Now, Gendry said this in a tone filled with wonder. To think that he who had no family to speak of after his mother’s death was not only the lord husband of the best woman in the Seven Kingdoms, who’d given him _five_ children, would have _grandchildren_ filled him with awe.

Not so Arya.

“Excuse me, but did you just call me _old?”_ She sprang to her feet, hands on her hips. “Take it back!”

Gendry thought he’d never get his fill of his irrational, outrageous she-wolf of a wife. He threw back his head and laughed as she pounced on him, pummeling his chest futilely, until the heat sparked between the two of them, and her blows turned to caresses, and her mouth crashed down on his.

“You may be counting our grandbabes before they’re hatched, you stupid bull,” Arya said between kisses, “but I don’t know that we’re done with _babes_ of our own yet.” 

And Gendry agreed that there was only one way to find out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The five Baratheon children are the twins Durran and Brandon (17), Elenei (15), Lyanna (10) and Eddard (5). Their nicknames are Dur, Bran, Elly, Anna, and Ned -- Durran and Elenei are named for mythic Stormlands legends, Lyanna and Eddard are Northern names, and Brandon has significance for the Starks and Baratheons.
> 
> I have a pretty good idea of what the other families' next generation kids are like, too. A few of them are described here, but of course, there are more. :)


	4. Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before I turn to AXG Week 2017, I want to quickly finish up my 2016 prompts. They'll be shorter than my usual fare, but I'll be happy to get them done at long last!

Gendry and Arya weren’t exactly the silent type. Being part of Westeros’ most famous band didn’t leave much room – or time – for silence. Theirs was a whirlwind world of tour buses, motel rooms of questionable quality, and too-greasy takeout at 2 am after rocking out stadiums then drinking out of paper bags backstage.

When they joined the Brotherhood without Banners five years before, it was a lark. Gendry had been playing bass for them ever since his older sister Mya started singing alongside Tom. Arya had joined a few months later as drummer, since Jon and Gendry were friends, and the band had begun using the Starks’ garage after guitarist Thoros’ experiments with sparks and flames burned down the Baratheon shed… 

Gendry and Mya’s father was so drunk that he’d laughed until he pissed himself. It embarrassed Gendry to no end, and Arya was the only one who hadn’t laughed. (Even Jon suppressed a few titters.)

Anyway, the official story of the band began in the garage at the Starks’ estate, Winterfell. Half a decade later, they’d topped the Billboard charts countless times, had won a dozen industry awards, and had played for the President of the United States, the Queen of England, and just about every emir, sheikh, and prince in the Middle East.

They’d just played Glastonbury, rocking the crowds despite the incessant rain. In ponchos and hoodies, sloshing through the downpour, their avid fans had stomped in the mud and held their fingers up, rocking out along with the band. 

Though they were mostly covered by the stage, Gendry was a little concerned about his amp. Not only was he one of the most famous bass players in the world, what none but their most dedicated fans knew was that he handled all the repairs for their instruments. They had technicians but Gendry had always been handy. In fact, he’d built most of his basses himself. Those made by others didn’t sound the same.

It was now part of the Brotherhood’s distinctive sound.

There was a break, and time for a drum solo. He glanced over at Arya. The rain had dampened her mouse-brown hair, plastering part of it to the side of her face, and the dampness brought out the roses in her cheeks. She was lost in the music, drumsticks flying, cymbals clashing. It never failed to remind Gendry of someone dancing through water, she was so smoothly graceful.

When her solo was over, the audience erupted in cheers.

After their set was over, the Brotherhood retreated to their tour bus for drinks, chat and chew. They’d originally planned to head back to Bristol that night, but the downpour had rendered the drive impossible.

There was nowhere much to sit, so Arya was perched on Gendry’s lap after while. This was not unusual. If there weren’t enough seats anywhere, Arya would just use one of Gendry’s thighs as her chair. It wasn’t anything they ever talked about or acknowledged. She was the littlest, and he was the biggest, and so it was.

The problem was that the way the trailer was made, and the fact that another band, the Second Sons, had joined them to talk shit and shoot the breeze left the bus even more crowded. It meant that Gendry could only place a buttcheek and a half on the only seat that would fit him, leaving him to hang off on a slope…

…and he had to hold Arya by the waist so she wouldn’t fall.

The fact that everyone was drinking far too much (after all, what else was there to do in a downpour?) didn’t help matters at all.

Soon, Arya was too tipsy to balance atop him. She began to fall forward. Gendry, more than twice her size and not yet feeling the effects of his drink, grabbed her just in time and pulled her up to his chest.

“Caught you,” he whispered into her ear.

She giggled softly in reply. “That remains to be seen, stupid,” she retorted, whispering too.

The rest of the conversation was so loud, so out there, that no one paid much attention to their quiet conversation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” grumbled Gendry.

“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you,” came her soft reply. “It’s not something we can hash out in here.”

“Why not in here? These are our mates…”

“This isn’t about our mates. This is about you and me.”

Their eyes locked. Then both whispered different things at once.

“There’s a tent…”

“Let’s get out of here…”

They stopped. Laughed.

“If we do this,” Arya muttered, “if we _finally_ do this, there’s a good chance we’ll get caught, and not by our mates.”

His voice was a low rumble in his chest. “Do you care?”

And the wickedest grin spread over Arya’s pretty features as she shook her head.

Lifting her by the waist, Gendry set Arya on her feet… then stood up himself.

“Oi, where’re you two going?” slurred Hot Pie, the only one to notice.

“We’re off for a bit of air,” said Arya aloud, taking Gendry by the hand and pulling him toward the door.

Hot Pie would have questioned this under normal circumstances. He would have halted all over ongoing conversations and lead the entire band in taking the piss.

However, Hot Pie had just finished an entire bottle of Captain Morgan’s Best Coconut Rum, and was now working on a second… so he merely shrugged and nodded.

So Arya and Gendry managed to sneak out of the tour bus, unaccosted. It took them more than a half hour to pitch their tent, and by the time they did, they were thoroughly soaked.

Inside the tent was dry enough, though.

And once they were in there, after five years, they’d decided they’d had more than enough talking.

It was a good thing that they’d pitched that tent so well, then.

  

* 

Eventually, their mates did find out. And so did the press.

But that is another story for another time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Sorry it's been so long!


	5. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a roll! Here's a bit more...

“Are you sure you two will be all right while I’m away?” Arya asked, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

Gendry had the baby against his shoulder, rubbing her back so that she’d burp. Arya had just fed her, and was going to do the honors until he lifted their daughter out of his broad arms.

“I’m her father, aren’t I?” he said. “Nothing to it.”

“There’s no shame in asking for help,” came her wary reply. “Sansa has been wonderful these past weeks. In fact, she’s the reason I’ve been able to work from home since the baby came. If she hadn’t insisted on this spa day…”

“But she’s right,” said Gendry, bending down to kiss the uncertainty from his wife’s conversation. “It’s been nearly six weeks and you deserve this, Arya.”

“I was just looking online… did you know there are pedicurists who do home visits? No need for a spa…”

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

“Sansa!”

It took them both to coax Arya out the door. All the same, she didn’t relent until little Lya was snug in her bassinet, sleeping soundly.

“We won’t be long,” called Arya as she left. “If you need help, Nan’s right next door!”

Sansa, right behind her, turned around and gave her brother-in-law a conspiratorial wink. 

 

*

 

All was well for the first couple of hours. Baby Lya napped, while Gendry caught up on his favorite TV shows like Men at Arms and Accidental Blacksmith. He dreamed about opening a forge and crafting weaponry for Renaissance faires and medieval re-enactments, too. In reality, with a growing family, he was glad to have a mechanic’s job at the local Honda dealership.

Gendry hadn’t meant to get married so young. He’d been a foster kid since he was six years old, and grew up rough. But when he was placed into the Starks’ home way up North in Winterfell for six months when he was fourteen, he became fast friends with Robb and Jon. Little Arya was always underfoot, irritating like a fly… but when the call came and he was placed with that childless older couple in Highgarden, he found that he missed her calling him “stupid” all the time.

He didn’t see Arya again until she was 20 and he was 25. By that time, he’d been working as a mechanic for almost six years. Freed of the system and given a trade, he felt lucky to have that hovel of a studio apartment above the mom and pop garage of the man who trained him. Tobho Mott felt more like a father than anyone who Gendry had ever known. So when he got sick, it made sense for Gendry to keep the shop going and to pick up a second job as a bouncer at one of the most popular clubs in King’s Landing.

Most of the time, Gendry lived like a monk. Not having a dollar to his name, a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of made dating difficult at times. There was always the possibility that he’d have to explain his choice of company to Mrs. Mott, too… the very thought had made him shudder, back then. But he’d had girlfriends, and he knew what he liked.

What Gendry liked best were petite, feisty, _leggy_ brunettes.

And the most beautiful one he’d ever laid his eyes on came stumbling into his club one fateful night. The three friends presented their IDs, which all passed the blacklight screening. But _she_ simply tried to go right behind them, teetering on impossibly high heels.

“I’m going to need to see some ID, miss,” he told her, feeling his insides twist at her tipsy smile.

“Do you really, handsome?” she slurred, laughing under her breath. “How about I buy you a drink instead?”

It was all he could do to remain firm with her. “I think you’ve had enough.”

In response, her hands clutched upon his folded arms, using them as leverage as she hoisted herself up to her full height, for even stilettos weren’t tall enough so that she could look him in the eyes.

His eyes fell upon her black-painted, silver glitter nails, clutching into the muscles of his forearms. Unbidden, he imagined them clutched somewhere much more interesting.

She started to speak.

And then, she laughed in his face, chortling with recognition.

_“Gendry?”_

He looked down at her, stomach twisting again with the realization. _“Arya.”_

Before he knew it, she’d flown into his arms, giggling and giggling. They talked the rest of his shift, then found a diner and talked some more. They talked until the sun came up, and then headed to his hovel of an apartment above Tobho's garage.

That morning, Gendry brought a girl home. He even invited her to breakfast with the Motts.

A year later, they were engaged.

Another year, and they were married.

And three years into their marriage, they welcomed baby Lyanna into their home and heart.

Gendry hadn't meant to marry so young, to be a husband and a father in his 20s.

Some things were just meant to be. 

 

*

 

In the present, Gendry’s reverie and TV watching were interrupted by Lya’s cries. In an instant, he had his tiny bean of a baby girl in his arms, rocking her to soothe her… until he noticed the weight of her diaper.

“Is Daddy’s little Lya all wet?” he said in a singsong voice. “Well, let’s see here…”

He carried his daughter to the changing table, humming an old song under his breath. When he removed her little onesie, bright yellow-orange poop fell onto the changing table with a wet _plop._

“Aha, my little baby girl made a stinky! Stinky little baby…”

Gendry reached for a wet wipe to clean the baby poop. He scooped the poop, placed the baby down on the changing table…

And the poop fell out of the wipe into Lya’s hair.

The baby stopped whimpering and looked at him in wonder, with wide grey eyes.

_She looks so much like her mother when she does that. It’s as if she knows I don't know what I'm doing._

Grabbing a fresh wipe, Gendry tried to remove the poop from his daughter’s hair. He felt confident that he’d removed most of it, but would give her a bath after he fed her. Next came time to remove the diaper.

_Guess this is why Arya fussed so much when I got the ones that were on sale. Seven Hells, there’s baby poop everywhere…_

Well, baby poop wasn’t big person poop, Gendry reasoned. Bravely, he took off the diaper, and used half the box of wipes to clean Lya and the table, too.

The baby smiled happily at him, flailing a bit in all her baby glory.

Gendry smiled back.

That's when Lya peed all over the changing table.

Groan. “Come on, little girl, you’re giving Daddy a hard time!”

Lya cooed and kicked her legs and arms in response.

More wipes were the only solution this time. Gendry used up the rest of the box hurriedly as he tried to soak up the spill. Feeling more than a little defeated, he used the last to mop his brow, then reached for a fresh diaper.

_Wait…_

_I’ve never changed her before._

_This child is seven weeks old. How the hell have I never done this before?!_

Of course, he knew how. When your wife was Arya Stark, your sister-in-law was Sansa Stark, and your adoptive mother was Mrs. Mott, every time you tried to change your own daughter’s diaper, there was some woman hovering about, insisting you didn’t know what you were doing, you big lumbering bull, give me that baby to change and I’ll give her back to you, _maybe,_ when I’m done, she’s just too sweet and precious for this world.

Gendry furrowed his brow with determination. This couldn’t be so hard. After all, he was an engineer!

The first time, he stuck the tape on the cotton of the diaper. Perhaps it would’ve been alright, but as Arya had pointed out, he got the _cheap_ diapers and it was adhesive not the Velcro-like stuff of the more expensive kind. That meant the tape was ruined. 

RIP, diaper number one.

The second time, he put the diaper on backwards. (It took him about three minutes to figure out what was wrong.)

So long, diaper number two.

The third time was the charm. He carefully swaddled his daughter, then taped the cotton exactly right so that there wouldn’t be any leaks (take that, women!).

Lya cooed and showed him her gums. Gendry took this as a sign of approval.

_I’m the best dad there ever was!_

Then a distinct smell assaulted his nose.

_Is that what I think it is?_

Of course, it was.

“Lyanna Waters!!!”

And behind him, the two women who had been watching couldn’t control themselves. Arya and Sansa, fingers and toes newly painted, laughed and laughed and laughed…

“Fine then,” Gendry said grumpily. “But _this_ is why _I_ buy cheap diapers.”

 

 


End file.
